The bargain basement late night delivery slot from the supermarket is great. While everyone else in the country is out spending pay day night in the pub or at a really good Halloween party, I am answering the door in my pyjamas with a towel on my head. I let the delivery man into the living room and he curses as he trips over the booster seat, then asks me just why I ordered twenty bottles of fizzy water (it’s just better than still, OK?) and if I plan to bathe in it (eurgh.)

At least I didn’t have to carry it all home from the supermarket. That and the pumpkins, all three of them. So, when my little boy comes downstairs in the morning, it will be like Father Christmas has been in the night, even though it was nothing like that.

We’ve got a whole week off to spend together. No juggling, no guilt: just us two and pumpkins, leaves and Frankenstein stuff. It’s nearly as good as Christmas, maybe even better.

“I’ll leave you to drink your lemonade then,” said that delivery man as he left.

When Tom was one and I’d finished my degree, I went out looking for work with bags of enthusiasm and a massive, naive smile on my face. I’d done it: had a baby, graduated and I was ready to begin a career. I had no idea how difficult the next bit was going to be.

Paying a childminder to look after my son, I attended dozens of fruitless interviews. I lived with Mum in a small town, where work, particularly well-paid, part-time work, was scarce. I knew I was going to have to commute to a city, but also that I wouldn’t be home in time to collect Tom for 6pm, when most childminders finish. Eventually, I became self-employed and managed to save up to move out. I got a part-time job with Saturday shifts, but that nearly fell through when I found that many childminders who worked weekends charged huge premiums. Back then, I got help with nursery fees (I don’t know if I would under the current system.) The nursery was great: open until 6pm, all year-round. I got a shock when Tom started school: suddenly, it’s expected of you to do half-day or 3pm pick-ups – and it’s closed for 13 weeks a year.

Last week, David Cameron said (amongst other things) “there is only one route out of poverty and it is work.”

I don’t often agree with Mr C, but I do there. For those who are able, work is wonderful. Most people moan about their jobs sometimes, but we’d be lost without them. I for one don’t know what I’d be doing all day while Tom was at school if I wasn’t working. Work keeps our minds busy, sets a crucial example to children, it challenges us and of course, it pays the bills. But I am lucky to have qualifications, the ability to work flexibly from home and family and friends who help out when they can. It’s not that straightforward for others.

Despite common misconceptions, 59% of single parents work – and according to Gingerbread, the national one parent family charity, most of those who don’t desperately want to. The problem is that too many barriers stand in the way; many single parents need to have access to courses that will qualify them to work, affordable childcare, flexible hours, or wraparound clubs at schools. And after childcare and housing costs have been taken into consideration, work needs to be beneficial (Gingerbread say one in five single parents who work full-time are living in poverty.) Even with the new ‘Universal Credit’ system, childcare costs can outstrip wages.

Gingerbread want to make going out to work an achievable route out of poverty for single parents. That’s why they’ve launched the ‘Make it Work for Single Parents’ campaign, which ultimately aims to get 250,000 more single parents into work by 2020. You can read the full task list here.

Gingerbread are asking single parents to add their voices to the Make it Workforce. It’s a chance to tell the Government and employers what you need in order to be able to go to work. Click here to see what’s being said already. Even if you’re not a single parent, you can get involved in the campaign, by telling someone you know who is, or writing to your MP.

Work is the only route out of poverty (apart from perhaps winning the lottery) but it has to work for those who want to do it.

The fact that our family is small is something we’ve been talking about a bit this week. Tom has to make a family tree at school. Even though the teacher explained in her request for photos that all shapes and sizes of tree will be celebrated, I knew Tom’s was going to look particularly tiny and lopsided. So, we had the chat about how lots of people love him and it’s a shame the cat isn’t allowed on the tree and then he gave me a massive squeeze and told me I am the best thing in the entire history and it all felt OK.

Fast forward to this evening: My sister was coming to meet Tom after his swimming lesson and we were hurriedly wrapping her birthday presents and writing her cards in the foyer of the pool.

Being organised (I thought), I’d bought one of those paper gift bags, so that I could just wrap the presents in tissue paper and shove them inside, without any need to worry about things like scissors or Sellotape.

“What are you doing?” asked a little girl from Tom’s class, peering over the table.

“Wrapping my auntie’s birthday presents,” said Tom.

“You need Sellotape,” she said, as I wrapped a sheet of tissue around an umbrella and twisted it at the ends (like people do to make presents look like crackers at Christmas, even though it isn’t Christmas.)

“We haven’t got any Sellotape,” I said, plonking the brolly into the bag and moving on to the chocolate.

“My family,” said Tom, stopping to add in a word, “my little family – is a bit disorganised sometimes, but we make a great team.”

True, that.

This is a divi tree from the Caribbean. They never grow very big and lean one way because of the trade winds. Photo: Aruba Divi Tree – Eagle Beach by Serge Melki on Flickr, licensed under Creative Commons: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

What are you doing this weekend? If you’re in Manchester tomorrow (Saturday), pop into the Arndale and do some good.

One of my favourite things about winter is zipping my son into his warm winter coat (actually, he tends to do that himself these days, but you know what I mean…) There’s a certain glow from knowing that your child is warm and cosy – and if you’re anything like me, you’re probably guilty of taking that for granted.

Manchester isn’t known for its tropical climate, so a decent winter coat is a necessity for anyone living here. Unfortunately, it’s not a given for many children in the city. Last week, the M.E.N. reported that 42 per cent of children in Manchester are living in poverty – that’s twice the national average. The way the Government is going, the situation isn’t going to improve any time soon.

The Wood Street Mission has been helping local families for over 140 years. Last year, they helped 9,300 children living in poverty. Project Little Coat / Big Coat aims to collect coats in perfect condition for children whose parents or carers can’t afford to buy them new ones. It’s a simple idea: just take a pre-loved coat to fit a child or young adult to Halle Square in the Arndale tomorrow. As well as the knowledge that your child’s old coat is going to someone who really deserves it, you’ll get a voucher entitling you to 20% off a new coat at selected Arndale shops. So, if you’ve got any too-tiny coats kicking around under the stairs, you know what to do. Find out more about the Little Coat – Big Coat appeal here.

Sunday morning and Tom and I are sitting in the swathes of clothes that litter the inside of our tent. It’s lashing it down outside, the walls are quivering and drops of condensation are being rattled on to our ‘bed’.

Last night was Primal Scream and thanks to the help of a team of friends strong enough to shoulder Tom, he got a perfect view of Bobby and almost as much attention. It’s the last day of the magnificent Festival Number 6 in magical Portmeirion, there are a hundred amazing things to see and do and I don’t think we can move for a bit. I could do with the Portaloo, but I just stuck my head out of the tent and got smacked by sideways sheets. We do need to leave the tent at some point, but I’m worried it will fly off into the estuary. We’ll just sit tight, until things calm down a bit, then go out and see what’s happening. I flick through the programme, spoilt for choice by the tantalising music, talks and parties in spectacular places. Tom is eating a piece of squashed bread, wrapped around a rubbery cheese slice the colour of Barbie. Balancing precariously on his long-johnned lap is a tin of cold baked beans.

“Ah,” he sighs, dipping the bread into the beans and catching the drips on the lid, “This is the life.”

Finally: south of the city, within budget and best of all, a garden. One of my pet hates is when letting agents market two-up-two-downs in Chorlton as cottages (£850 a month, anyone?) but this did actually feel like a cottage. And it wasn’t in Chorlton, but I’d probably end up getting eco ennui if I lived there anyway.

“I want it,” I said, as we stepped through the door into a room full of sunlight.

Ten minutes later, the fees were in the agency’s bank account, the lady at the office was congratulating me and Tom was choosing his bedroom. Never mind the people who arrived to look at it as we were leaving: it was ours.

Except it wasn’t.

Three days later, I received a call from the agency:

“The landlady has decided she doesn’t want children in there.”

“I’ve only got one child.”

“I know, we’ve tried but she just says no children.”

“He’s nearly seven. What does she think he’s going to do – draw on the walls?”

“Sorry. You haven’t handed in your notice on your current house, have you?”

“No,” I’d been too busy, thank goodness, “Why is this happening?”

“Sorry. She just wants two working professionals.”

We’d already been through this: I contacted the agency initially to ask if I could have a cat in there – and they were more interested in what humans would be moving in. After I told them it would just be me and my son, they said that sorry, the landlady would only accept two working professionals. I pleaded with the agent, offering a guarantor, references and pay slips and suddenly, they were ‘pleased to tell me’ the landlady would let us look around.

Lucky us.

When the news had sunk in, I called the agency back to sort out the refund of the fees. This time, I got a man:

“I just don’t understand why she let us look around then changed her mind.”

“Yeah it’s not discrimination or anything like that,” he said, before I’d even mentioned the word, “All it is is that she’s got some concerns about the safety of the property and outside the property that make it unsuitable for a child.”

“But she knew I had a child. What concerns?”

“Obviously, these are just some concerns she has.”

“What sort of concerns?” Holes in the roof? Local doggers? A poltergeist?

“Obviously,” (no, it’s not obvious) “these are just some concerns she has. It’s for her own conscience, really.”

I checked the website when I got home and the house had gone. Someone had got it, just not us.

Luckily, Tom’s easy-going. “She sounds nasty, Mum. It’s a good job we didn’t move into her house anyway.”

I suspect the landlady hadn’t decided that she didn’t want a child in her property; she had decided that she didn’t want a single mother in her property.

I’d forgotten all this: when Tom was a toddler, I thought I’d be stuck in Mum’s house forever. Following one viewing, I called a landlady to tell her I was interested and she said “Right. Well, you don’t choose us, we choose you. So we’ll let you know if you’ve been successful.” (She never called back.)

On another occasion, a landlord of a ‘student flat suitable for families’, advertised through the university laughed at me: “How can you be studying if you have a baby? Sorry, this flat is not for you.”

This is not the 1950s: single parents are not excluded like they used to be, but the discrimination is still there, subtle. Single parents cannot just find their perfect home, pay the deposit and move in – mysterious force fields seem to see to that. For those who claim Housing Benefit, things are even harder. Moving house wasn’t something we desperately needed to do, but for many it is. You’re not as susceptible to the prejudice when you’re lucky enough to have an education and a job – but neither are you completely immune.

If you’re my landlord and you’re reading this (unlikely, but you have just offered to have the whole house professionally painted) we’re not going anywhere. Turns out getting Tom into a new school would have been incredibly difficult – and he’s happy where he is. And we’re very lucky to have a landlord who trusts us, never comes round, sends a repair man the second anything goes wrong and lets us have a cat. Thanks. I’ll keep making this our home and paying my rent on time, every month, just like I have been doing for the past five years.

Giving out the name of your blog when it’s called ‘My Shitty Twenties’ is always fun, especially in front of little ears. Still, all those Ts sound good through the ventriloquist-tight teeth of one reluctant to say something out loud. It’s a scenario I found myself in at Beacons Festival last weekend, much to the amusement of box office staff.

“It’s a Tumblr about Portaloos,” I said.

As it turns out, a lot of the overheard conversations at the festival were about toilets, or lack of them. I could write a blog post about it, but I won’t, because we didn’t let it ruin what was a wonderful weekend.

There were four of us in our party: my friend Claire, her broken finger, me and Tom. Count the bags-on-wheels and we made a pretty sorry caravan. When we arrived, after two trains, a minor bus crash and a taxi, a kindly dad helped us shift our camping gear.

“We’ve been here since Thursday,” he said, “The kids love it; it’s like a mini holiday.”

I was a bit envious then that we hadn’t been able to make it down until Saturday – Funkirk Estate was gorgeous, surrounded on all sides by hills, easily accessible from the local town, small and simple to navigate.

Making ace shadow puppets

The family camp site was full, but I half-expected that given our late arrival and the ‘first come, first served’ warning on the website. We pitched up elsewhere, but still had access to the family facilities. Whilst the Breakfast Club didn’t have the hotly-anticipated cartoons, it did deliver story-telling and workshops in a space that was warm, comfy and dry. Those three words are bliss when it’s a boggy one: Saturday afternoon was glorious (clear, paraglider-peppered sky that turned pink at dusk,) but Sunday was barely light, very wet and squelchy underfoot.

Stand-off between fox and sea monster

The brilliant Ladybird team worked tirelessly to provide muddied children with all manner of entertainment. Elsewhere, the Into The Woods tent was a colourful but calm space and home to one of my festival highlights: a screening of We Are Poets, a mesmerising documentary about some of Leeds Young Authors‘ journeys to compete in USA poetry slams. As the film ended and Claire and I sniffled a bit, some of the stars took to the stage for a surprise live performance and Q and A. (Tom’s questions: “How far away was it when you went to America?” and “What are your favourite bands?”)

Speaking of bands, we’re up to Sunday, shin-deep in mud and I haven’t mentioned music. The line up for Beacons was ace, but there’s no point in trying to see someone in particular when you’ve got a child in tow. On Saturday afternoon, Tom flung himself about to a bit of Bok Bok, which delighted his fellow ravers. Later on, Ghostpoet provided rhymes and goosebumps – and I got to see a whole ten minutes of Andrew Weatherall’s set before Tom’s batteries ran out. But the big one, the reason why Tom was so excited, was the Sunday night headliner…

Toots and the Maytals are best heard in the sunshine, so I wasn’t sure how it would go in a dark marquee. We took Tom back to our tent for a pre-gig siesta and when we emerged, the site was draped in thick mist. It all added to the finale atmosphere, but what Beacons was lacking was an outdoor stage. Big tops might keep rain off, but venturing in with a little one is daunting, especially when the ground’s a quagmire. Dads tried to heroically hoist their kids up on to their shoulders but struggled to balance in the sludge. Tom was gutted when he realised he couldn’t see Toots, but we hung back and the power nap paid off: he danced his way all through the dazzling set, which included Funky Kingston, Monkey Man and the ubiquitous 54-46 encore (Toots’ voice is so good.) At the end, a friend who didn’t have a broken finger found us and we managed to raise Tom above the crowd. He must have glimpsed the band for 30 seconds, but he was made up.

“That was amazing! I can’t believe it,” he huffed, red-faced, all the way back to the tent.

The Beacons bill obviously attracted grown-up music fans, but the provision for families was excellent. Yes, there were issues with toilets, but who goes to a festival expecting pristine loos? This was the first year for Beacons and it was clear that a lot of hard work and dedication had gone into making it happen. Yes, they should have ordered more Portaloos, but after all the fuss, they’ll be making sure they get that right next year.

I’d love there to be an outdoor stage, but the music, site, décor, children’s stuff and atmosphere were all spot on. Next time, we’ll try to arrive on Thursday and have that mini holiday.